Remembering Foster's
by Brad387
Summary: This fan-fiction is a retelling and continuation of Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. Mac, now fourteen and a freshman at high school, is reminiscing about his time at Foster's and undergoing the difficulties of adolescence. Rated T for the possibility of minor adult themes during the teenage segments.


Terrence, dressed in a grunge-style plaid shirt which reeked of typical teenage bodily fluids and blue jeans that had holes at the knees (somehow seen as fashionable by his peers), sat on his bed and sighed in sheer boredom. The room was dimly lit, with the curtains drawn in the middle of the day and the lights all switched off, and was in a state of squalor. His mother, occupied by her numerous jobs to keep her family afloat, had simply stopped caring and adopted the old adage of choosing her battles wisely. The boy was, to anyone with the slightest morsel of sense, a lost cause - or rather, to put more bluntly, stupid. Being stupid and bored simultaneously, however, was a dangerous thing for his little brother.

Hopping to his feet, which were covered by a pair of decaying sneakers that looked as though he had worn them for all of the thirteen years of his life, he sauntered casually out to the hall of their apartment and scanned the area after slamming the door loudly behind him with a tremendous thud. "Worm," he shouted at the top of his lungs, running down into the kitchen/living space and leaping over the sofa to land atop his little brother. "You're such a loser..."

Mac, the eight-year-old brother on the receiving end of such torment, was squirming in discomfort as his white woollen sweater rubbed uncomfortably against his skin (despite the warmth which it offered, there were disadvantages). "Get off me," he stuttered in his usual, ever so slightly scared, tone. Whilst far from cowardly, the three foot and six inch tall boy was known for an occasionally wimpy nature. "Get off of me, Terrence!"

Suddenly, as though the pair had a form of psychic link and knew when one another was in trouble, there came a flurry of spitballs: rolled pieces of paper covered disgustingly in saliva. They hit the teenager's head with force, forcing an outburst of surprise and a series of unpleasant moans and groans. "Leave him alone," said Blooregard Q. Kazoo (more commonly referred to as simply "Bloo"). From the end of a paper straw, like the kind found at children's restaurants, there came another eruption of spitballs which hit the teenage bully squarely in the face as he spun around swiftly to confront his assailant.

Mac, seizing the opportunity, jumped to his feet and dashed off in the opposite direction of his elder brother and in his haste bumped unintentionally into the nearby cabinet. There was a loud smash. The vase, a favourite of his mother, fell to the floor and shattered into tiny, sharp pieces. Terrence, who despite his stupidity was not deaf, span around and prepared to pounce upon his little brother. "You're gonna get it now!"

"Terrence," boomed a voice from the front doorway, causing the trio to spin around and spot the silhouette of a relatively young single mother with shopping bags in tow and high-heels which clopped upon the floor as she walked angrily over. Spotting the shattered vase, she scowled at each of them in turn. "Terrence," she repeated, with a tone which indicated she had become rather accustomed to his troublesome behaviour. "Go to your room. You too, Mac. We need...to talk."

Mac obliged, rather reluctantly, and shuffled (rather annoyed that his mother had not placed the blame entirely upon the deserving Terrence, but instead seemed disappointed with them all equally) off to his room as Bloo wandered aimlessly about. Once inside, and sat comfortably on the bed, his mother joined and the severity of the discussion was signalled by her firm closure off the door - shutting off Bloo from any unwanted participation.

"Terrence is always picking on me," sulked Mac, looking to his mother for some moral support in the matter and yet not finding any. He sighed, rather disappointed. "He treats me like I'm a baby."  
"Well...do you not think that there's perhaps a reason for that matter? I mean," she paused mid-sentence, awaiting a response from Mac to the question, but instead receiving only a look of sheer confusion. "Mac, you're eight now. It's time to be a big boy...and...well...big boys don't have imaginary friends."

* * *

"Big boys don't have imaginary friends," he murmured in a dreamlike state, tossing and turning in his sleep aggressively until finally awaking at the booming sound of an alarm clock, which sat perched atop a nightstand in his relatively clean (by teenage standards, anyway, for it was still hardly the picture of cleanliness) room. Slouching out of bed with a groan of displeasure, he sauntered slowly and reluctantly towards the mirror to study himself. Having grown approximately twenty inches in height and trimmed his hair so that it was now shorter, he looked different than his former self. He was beginning to look mature.

Glancing over at the alarm clock, which displayed the time and date with dim red LED lights, he groaned once as he slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a dark crimson t-shirt. Although his fashion sense had naturally changed, as it did for all growing boys, he had thankfully avoided the grunge look of his elder brother. Finally, after putting on a pair of white socks and black tennis shoes, he flung open the door of his room and stepped out to be greeted by his mother.

"Mom? I thought you had work," he said, talking with the usual unhappy tone that was typical of a teenager who has just reluctantly awoken from bed. "What are you doing here?"

"I could hardly miss my boy's big day," she said with a sense of over-the-top glee. "Now, I made you breakfast. Your favourite: pancakes."

Mac sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and picked up his fork to begin tucking into a plateful of hot sugar-free (because of his condition). "Mom," he said slowly, noticing the packaging of said pancakes over on the kitchen counter. "I'm not a little kid anymore. I can eat sugar just fine." It made no difference, however, for his mother was not even in the room and so he simply continued on with his meal. He ate slow, feeling the typical nerves of a first day at a new school, and high school no less.

* * *

"You can't get rid of me," screamed Bloo, wrapping his arms around his eight-year-old creator and shaking furiously. "There's another way, Mac. I saw this great place on the TV. This Foster's: a home for imaginary friends who have nowhere else to stay. Trust me, it's perfect!"

"I don't know Bloo," he said in a rather whiny voice, displeased at having been dragged outside in the early hours of the morning before school. "It doesn't look very friendly..."

The pair stood at the corner of a lonesome road, which was barren for all but a single mansion which stood menacingly behind a set of cast iron gates that towered above them. Inside, the place seemed lifeless, void of any living thing, and certainly not a place which you would send anyone - not even your worst enemy - to. Mac sighed, clearly disappointed and annoyed simultaneously at how Bloo had fallen victim to some late night infomercial, and then spun around to make his way back down the road towards home.

"Mac! Come on," shouted Bloo, chasing after and dragging the eight-year-old to the front gates which had creaked open upon the slightest touch. They entered and slowly approached the front door, which was large and made of mahogany - or some other comparably bespoke wood. It looked nice, but clinical, as you would expect from a school or a hospital. The bluish cylinder knocked at the door and then waited, rather impatiently, for a response. He tapped his feet on the floor, awaiting eagerly, and was soon greeted by an unexpected character . "Wow," murmured Mac to himself.

* * *

The fourteen-year-old stood by his locker, leaning his back against it and sighing as he looked around. He knew nobody, which was to be expected when starting a new school. However, as any American knew, being a freshman is a hard experience. The senior grades view you as childish (irrespective of your actual maturity) and often possess an unfounded disliking towards you. Should you be unlucky, then you won't even know anyone in your own grade. It can be, for someone with a wimpy tendency such as Mac, a horrible experience.

First lessons was mathematics, which wasn't too bad as the teacher had a reputation of being - by teacher standards - relatively friendly, and so Mac sauntered down the corridor towards the room that was pencilled down upon his timetable. Arriving at the room slightly late to discover the majority of his class had already entered, and were seated comfortably as they pulled out workbooks and miscellaneous stationery, he entered meekly to not draw unnecessary attention and swiftly found his seat. The desk was the typical wooden affair of US high schools, with a few carvings of obscene images or names which were presumably left by its former occupants, and the chair of the uncomfortable plastic kind that seemed reserved for students.

"Alright. Settle down, class," said a stranger's voice, which had a degree of comforting softness and warmth to it, yet also the sense of intelligence and experience. It was one of those voices which you could happily listen to ages, with a serenity akin to any iconic voice actors. Mac looked upwards to see who was responsible for such sounds and was greeted with the beautiful sight of a young woman - no more than twenty-five years of age. She had long, lush blonde hair which shined with pure radiance and a reasonably tanned, but not to ridiculous levels, skin tone. Along with aqua blue eyes and a sleek figure, she was the incarnation of many teenage boys' fantasies.

* * *

"I am Mr Herriman. Acting chairman of the household," he began, speaking with a distinct English accent as he beckoned the young pair inside. "Here at Foster's, we pride ourselves on offering a home to abandoned imaginary friends. Allow me to give you the tour." There was a brief pause for a moment, as the rabbit-like imaginary friend hopped over to the wall and reached for an old-fashioned speaker phone. "Miss Frances!"

The foyer which they were in was very large, with a central staircase that jutted upwards to the numerous floors stacked above and a shiny marble floor that had been clearly waxed on a frequent basis. The walls were a patchwork of colours, but each chosen colour resonated with warmth and neutrality. The building had a surprising aura of friendliness, despite the slightly imposing Mr Herriman and the nature of its large, almost ridiculous, size which would make getting lost an easy task.

Suddenly, and to the surprise of Mac who jolted backwards in sheer shock, there was an eruption of displeased screams from upstairs as a red-haired female marched burst into the room via the central staircase. "I'm coming! Hold your horses," she shouted in the direction of Mr Herriman, clearly frustrated at his impatience as he had called repeatedly down the speaker phone for her - emitting his voice loudly throughout the household. "What!?"

"Miss Frances, these two gentlemen are interested in the household. The tour, if you please," he said, not even awaiting a response (and so clearly expecting obedience from the young woman) as he hopped off down an adjacent corridor to the main foyer and into a small room which was presumably his office. Mac and Bloo faced each other briefly, rather surprised at the slightly zany encounter, and then to the woman. "I'm Frankie," she said, gesturing for them to follow as she sauntered over towards the stairs. "Welcome to Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends."


End file.
